Uncle William sniffed¹ the air of the docks with keen relish². The spring warmth had brought out the smells of lower New York teemingly. There was a dash of salt air and tar³, and a dim odor of floating—of decayed vegetables and engine-grease and dirt. It was the universal port-smell the world over, and Uncle William took it in in leisurely⁴ whiffs as he watched the play of life in the dockshed—the backing of horses and the shouting of the men, the hollow sound of hoofs⁵ on the worn planks⁶ and the trundling hither and thither⁷ of boxes and barrels and bales.
 
He was in no hurry to leave the dock. It was a part of the journey—the sense of leisure. Men who travel habitually⁸ by sea do not rush from the vessel⁹ that has brought them to port, gripsack in hand. There are innumerable details—duties, inspections¹⁰ and quarantines, and delays and questionings. The sea gives up her cargo¹¹ slowly. The customs move with the swift leisure of those who live daily between Life and the Deep Sea—without hurry and without rest.
 
Uncle William watched it all in good-humored detachment. He made friends with half the shed, wandering in and out through the crowd, his great bulk towering above it. Here and there he helped a fat, heavy baby down the length of the shed, or lifted aside a big box that blocked the way. He might have been the Presiding Genius of the place. Men took him in with a good-humored wink¹², as he towered along, and women looked after him gratefully. Amid the bustle¹³ and enforced waiting, he was the only soul at rest. Time belonged to him. He was at home. He had played his part in similar scenes in hundreds of ports. The city bubbling and calling outside had no bewilderments for Uncle William. New York was only one more foreign port, and he had touched too many to have fear of them. They were all alike—exorbitant cab-men, who came down on their fare if you stood by your box and refused to let it be lifted till terms were made; rum-shops and gambling-holes, and worse, hedging the way from the wharf¹⁴; soiled women haunting one’s steps, if one halted a bit or turned to the right or left in indecision. He had talked with women of every port. They were a huge band, a great sisterhood that reached thin hands about the earth, touching¹⁵ it with shame; and they congregated¹⁶ most where the rivers empty their burden of filth¹⁷ into the sea. Uncle William knew them well. He could steer¹⁸ a safe path among them; and he could turn a young man, hesitating, with foolish, confident smile on his face. Uncle William had not been in New York for twelve years, but he had a sailor’s unerring instinct for the dangers and the comforts of a port. He knew which way hell lay, and which of the drivers, backing and cursing and calling, one could trust. He signaled to one with his eye.
 
“What’ll ye charge to give this young feller a lift?” Uncle William indicated the youth beside him.
 
The driver looked him over with keen eye. “That’s all right.” He moved along on the seat to make room. “Come on, young man.”
 
The youth climbed up with clumsy foot.
 
“You might know of a job,” suggested Uncle William. “He looks strong and willin’.”
 
The man nodded back. “I’ll keep an eye on him, sir.” The van

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